


Petty Theft

by Aramley



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-19
Updated: 2011-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-17 22:33:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>At first he thinks he's going crazy, and then he thinks the laundry service is incompetent, but the tour moves on and Sergio Tacchini start telling him that eventually they're going to run out of stock, okay, and Novak reaches this disturbing yet inevitable conclusion: someone is stealing his shorts.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Petty Theft

At first he thinks he's going crazy, and then he thinks the laundry service is incompetent, but the tour moves on and Sergio Tacchini start telling him that eventually they're going to run out of stock, okay, and Novak reaches this disturbing yet inevitable conclusion: someone is stealing his shorts.

He experiments. Two new pairs sit untouched in their plastic wrapping on the coffee table and three worn ones lie in the laundry pile for days before Marian tells him he's disgusting and to wash them, for the love of god. Two freshly-laundered pairs mysteriously vanish.

"What the fuck," says Novak, to nobody in particular.

His team and the hotel staff are the only people who have regular access to his rooms. He checks eBay, but fortunately it doesn't look like there's a black market in his stolen shorts. Marko says, "Why the hell do I want your name plastered across my ass?" and that is a disturbing enough thought that Novak doesn't bother asking the rest of his team.

There's only one other person who's in his room often enough to be a suspect.

Rafa opens his hotel room door, blinking sleepy and bed-rumpled. "Nole?"

He is barefoot and bare-chested, which is kind of distracting and would be even more so, except that the shorts which are the only thing he's wearing are _very familiar_ shorts. Novak stares. 

"You steal my shorts," he says, incredulous. At this point it's a pretty redundant thing to say, but he says it anyway, because _what the fuck_. 

Rafa looks down, almost like he hadn't realised it himself, but when he meets Novak's eyes again there's a glimmer of something suspended between smug and embarrassed, if that's even possible; only Rafa could pull off that look.

"Only for sleep," Rafa says, and Novak swallows, because Jesus Christ, he thinks that might be the hottest thing he's ever heard in his life.

And Rafa knows. He's gone from embarrassed and smug to really just smug, zero to sixty, dark-eyed still with sleep and now with something not unlike triumph, and he looks at Novak through his bed-head and says, "You like?"

Which is all the encouragement Novak needs to jump him.

Rafa's body is still overheated from his nap, hot and already a little sweaty even by the time that Novak gets him shoved back down into the mess of his sheets with one hand pressed possessively across his bare chest to keep him down and the other stroking fingers between the stretched waistband of the shorts and the smooth skin of Rafa's hip. The elastic gives just a little, already extended to accommodate Rafa's heavier build - which makes him think about the fabric stretching over the swell of Rafa's ass and he groans open-mouthed against the curve of Rafa's jaw, feels the jump of a shuddery laugh against his lips and Rafa's arm coming up to curl around his shoulders.

"This, off," Rafa says, plucking at Novak's t-shirt, but Novak's already moving away to press a trail of kisses down Rafa's bare flushed chest while he shoves a hand up the leg of Rafa's - his - shorts, palming the muscle and dragging his blunted fingernails across the hot sensitive skin of the inner thigh until Rafa hitches his hips up, half-begging, " _Nole_ ," and Novak could actually care less right now about his t-shirt or about pretty much anything except the feel of Rafa's skin under his hands. He draws his hand down and out and leans back a little, looking at the way the shorts are rucked up against Rafa's pale thighs and the way his erection tents the silky material of Novak's shorts, material already damp. Novak thinks he looks like something you could die for, happily.

"Stop looking," Rafa says, not really meaning that at all, but _start touching_ , and because he's Rafa and he's as bossy and impatient in bed as everyone else thinks he's polite and patient out of it he hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the shorts and starts to hitch them down, like maybe that'll get Novak back into the swing of things rather than blow his mind. Novak grabs his wrist to stop him.

"Leave them," he says, choked with it. Rafa shudders out a breath and drags Novak up to his mouth for a rough and ridiculously messy kiss. Novak laughs into it, light-headed.

"You stole my shorts," he says, breathless, while he sticks his hand down the front of them. "Who does that?"

"Nole," Rafa says, hitching his hips up.

"You're crazy," Novak says, getting his hand around Rafa and smiling at the way Rafa arches up into it. "You _stole my shorts_."

"You," Rafa starts, and ends on a gasp, head thrown back..

As handjobs go, Novak's given better: the angle's awkward and he can't really get a rhythm going, but Rafa's not complaining and neither is Novak when Rafa looks like he does. His hands scrabble on Novak's shoulders as he drags him down for rough, imprecise kisses, panting against Novak's mouth while Novak strokes Rafa and ruts against his thigh and laughs through his ragged breath, because this is so teenaged and ridiculous and _fucking fantastic_ , neither of them even undressed all the way, too desperate to stop. Rafa comes first, a sharp-intake of breath muffled against the curve of Novak's jaw and his fingers bruising tight on Novak's shoulders, the sharp upwards twist of his hips nearly enough to break Novak's fucking wrist except it drives his thigh against Novak's crotch and he comes as well, inside his trousers, and he moans against Rafa's temple and hopes to god that Rafa has another pair of those stolen shorts lying around somewhere, because otherwise this is going to be a _bitch_ to explain.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to my lj as part of a WIP amnesty.


End file.
